


Dances with Madness

by Midnight Armageddon (lolasveroski)



Series: Talent-verse [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Boarding School AU, Multi, Superpowers, Teenlock, special talents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolasveroski/pseuds/Midnight%20Armageddon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson ends up at St. Bartholomew's School for the Gifted when he realizes his powers of healing. There, he meets Sherlock Holmes and a whole cast of friends and enemies. But when something strange happens at the icebreaker ball, it's up to John and Sherlock to stop a saboteur before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

                She had wandered into the kitchen while John was eating a late dinner of leftover pasta, and had mumbled a slurred “hey, little brother.” He was concerned, of course, as he always was, but he tried not to let it worry him. Harry often came home drunk. That much was nothing new.

            It wasn’t until she let out an inhuman wail and smashed the empty glass bottle on the kitchen counter that John permitted himself to shoot from his chair and stand by her side, carefully removing the shattered glass from her hands. “Harry, damn it. You’re bleeding.” He took her hand in its own, examining the damage done by the sharp edges of the bottle. There was a large gash running along her palm. He moved to drag her to the sink so that he could clean out the wound, but something stopped him.

            The edges of his sister’s skin were knitting back together where they had been severed. John was completely hypnotized, and stood with his mouth agape as the laceration healed. The only thing left on her hands was the blood, and he found himself cleaning that off before dragging her to bed. Later, alone in the comfort of his bedroom, he dragged a knife across his own palm, making a shallow incision. Though it stung, he placed his other hand over it. When he looked again, there was nothing there.

            He had found his Talent.

            When John told his mother over breakfast the next morning, shaking slightly with the weight of the news, she looked at him for a moment before covering her mouth and dissolving into a fit of sobs.

            John hated to admit it, but he knew that he was glad to be leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! This is just the prologue. Constructive criticism would be wonderful if you'd like to give it. I'm also looking for a beta reader if anyone is interested. Contact me here or through my tumblr at holywaterandsonicscrewdrivers.tumblr.com, if you wish.


	2. Warm Welcome

After tramping up a long cobbled path blanketed in crunchy leaves, John finds himself sipping tea in a cozy little office at St. Bartholomew’s School for the Gifted. He sits in a cushy overstuffed chair across from a little old woman, who has just introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson. His mother sits stiffly next to him, and Harriet – her posture deplorable as always – has tagged along for the ride and is situated next to Mrs. Watson.  The old woman smiles at them, emphasizing the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “Afternoon. My name is Mrs. Hudson, and I’m the headmistress here at St. Bartholomew’s.”

“Uh, hi,” John mumbles, staring into his tea.

“Hello Mrs. Hudson,” Mrs. Watson says, her annunciation only slightly better than her sixteen-year-old son’s.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Now,” Mrs. Hudson begins, leaning forward slightly, “How are you feeling about starting your time here at St. Bartholomew’s?”

“I’m, ah, excited. I think,” John says, measuring his words carefully. “Good to begin something new. Fresh start, and all that.”

“Lovely.” She grins before dropping another sugar cube into her tea.

“I’m just glad he’ll finally be out of the house,” Harriet jabs.

“Oh, you’ll miss him,” Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Give it time. Now, Nora – it is Nora, right, dear?”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Watson straightens in her chair.

“May I perhaps speak to you privately?”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Watson repeats, nodding vigorously.

“Harriet, John, would you mind waiting in the hall for just a bit?”

Both teenagers nod their assent and make for the door. John slumps against the wall in the hallway, massaging his temples and sighing deeply. He can feel the beginnings of a headache prickling in his skull. “Mum’s going to cry herself silly for ages, hope you know,” Harry tells him.

“I do, yeah, thanks.”

“You can bet she’ll write you three times a day just to make sure you’re doing alright.”

“Yes, Harriet, I know,” he snaps.

She flips her auburn hair over her shoulder with a sniff. “No need to be short-tempered with me, John Hamish Watson.”

“God, Harriet. You’re nearly nineteen. Could you please just grow up?” He is aware of his voice rising slightly in both pitch and volume, and he coughs, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one is listening in to their conversation before he continues. “Please, Harry. For me. You… you need to stop. With… the drinking, and the partying. You need to get a job so that you can take care of Mum because now that I’m here, I can’t do it anymore. Please, Harriet. Please, just… for once. I’m not going to be there, so you have to.”

Harriet frowns deeply, but does not respond. Instead, she sticks her hands deep in the pockets of the (two-sizes-too-large) pants that she is wearing and huffs in annoyance. “Thanks for the sermon, Father John,” she says, her voice dripping with acid.

He scuffs at the floor with his feet, gritting his teeth. He knows that he must have made his point, or Harriet wouldn’t be as irritated as she is. This, however, doesn’t stop John from wishing that she was just a bit more cooperative. It will be okay, he tells himself. It has to be okay.

John and Harry both are snapped out of their respective reveries when the door to the office opens again and Mrs. Hudson greets them, beaming. “We’re ready for you to join us again.”

The two Watsons situate themselves again on either side of their mother, waiting to hear whatever Mrs. Hudson has to say next.

“So, John,” she begins. “Your talent is one of healing.”

“That’s right, yeah,” he agrees.

“How did that present itself?”

He takes a deep breath, having recounted this story more than once before, and begins again. “My sister cut open her hand and when I touched it, the cut closed,” John tells her.

“Very interesting. Now, John, you are aware that you are a bit of a late bloomer. Most of the students here have been at St. Bartholomew’s since they were about eleven or twelve, and you’re only just beginning at sixteen.”

He blushes, nodding. “Alright.”

“So,” she continues, “That means that I would like to have a few periodical conferences with you to make sure that you’re settling in properly and not running into any problems. Is that suitable?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. He’s relieved to have someone like Mrs. Hudson to talk to. She seems to be a very genuine woman.

“During these periodical conferences we will also be discussing your training, your Talent, and any plans you happen to have for the future.”

He nods, and she pulls out her spectacles and grabs a form from the stack of paperwork on her desk, squinting at it. “I’ll also be assigning you a student mentor. Gregory Lestrade will be showing you around a bit, making sure you’re adjusting well, and answering any other questions you may happen to have during your stay here.”

John is relieved that he will at least know someone before classes start, even if it is a student made to monitor him. He smiles at Mrs. Hudson, feeling some of the tension that had been building up inside him melt away. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” She folds her hands, resting them on her desk. “I believe that’s it. Are there any other concerns? Nora? Harriet?”

Both Watson women shake their head in succession, and Mrs. Hudson stands. “Well, then, I think that will be all. John, Gregory will be here shortly to escort you to Baker Hall, where you will be staying in Room 221.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John says, reaching out to shake the old woman’s hand. Both Mrs. Watson and Harry do the same, Nora quite obviously holding back tears.

When the three of them are in the hall again, Mrs. Watson begins to sniffle. “It’ll be alright, Mum,” he tells her before she envelops him into a hug, clutching his maroon jumper for dear life. He can feel her silent sobs rocking her, and he resists the urge to crumple. “I’ll write to you every day, okay?” When she pulls away, he embraces Harriet.

“Don’t do anything stupid, you little prat,” she tells him, though he can hear a slight catch in her voice when she says it.

Mrs. Watson dabs at her eyes a final time before looking at her watch. “Our train leaves in an hour. We’d best be going.” She pulls John in close again, trembling, and before he knows it both his mother and his sister are gone.

John is standing, feeling hopelessly alone, in the hallway with nothing but his suitcase when he meets Greg.

“Hello! You must be John.” The taller boy sticks a hand out and shakes John’s firmly. “I’m Greg. I’m your student mentor. Pleasure to meet you. We’re off to, ah, Baker Hall? Is that it?”

John nods, not entirely sure if he trusts himself to speak. He wheels his suitcase out of the administrative building and back down the cobbled path as Greg makes pleasant conversation, talking about St. Bartholomew’s campus in the fall and the rugby team. It offers John a blessed distraction.

Finally, they arrive on the third floor hall of a large stone building. “You have your keycard?” Greg asks, and John fishes the card out from his pocket where he had put it when Mrs. Hudson gave it to him. “Welcome to your new home,” Greg jokes as the door swings open.

“Thanks, mate,” John tells him, bowing his head gratefully.

“Any time. I’m up a floor in 335 if you should need anything.”

John promises to stop by, and soon finds himself in the empty darkness of his dormitory. He switches on the light, bathing the eerily sterile room in an off-white glow. He tosses his suitcase at the end of his bed, not bothering to unpack. He’s too tired to change out of his day clothes, so he flops into bed with them on anyways. He’s well on his way to unconsciousness when he happens to note the empty bed on the other side of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! First real chapter, wow. I'm still looking for a beta reader if anyone is interested. You can contact me here or through my tumblr at holywaterandsonicscrewdrivers.tumblr.com.


	3. The Roommate

                The next two weeks fly by in a peaceful autumn breeze. John and Greg go out for lunch one day, coffee another. Greg makes sure that John is doing well and adjusting accordingly, and talks about his rugby career thus far and his dream to be work on the police force like his father.

                John, to his credit, does a brilliant job acclimating to the change. His favorite class is Anatomy, where he happens to catch the eye of a gorgeous girl across the room on only the second day. He is also “absolutely thriving” – the words of his Talent trainer, an old grandfatherly man from Cardiff. They meet once a week, though Mr. Madison expresses desire to put John with a trainer more suited to his advancements.

                He has already had a follow-up appointment meeting with Mrs. Hudson when something peculiar happens.

                John, with his knapsack over his shoulder, makes his way to the old woman’s office. Once there, he is slightly taken aback by the presence of a tall, pale figure occupying a seat across from the headmistress’ desk.

                “Um,” he begins – and quite an intelligent utterance he finds it. “I can come back later?”

                “Oh, no, there’s actually something I was hoping to discuss with you.” Mrs. Hudson smiles and sets a mug of tea on the desk in front of him. He doesn’t take time to wonder from where she procured it.

                “Oh. Ah. Okay.” He sits down. The lanky teenager in the other chair offers a hand, and John shakes it.

                “Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you.”

                “I’m John -…” he begins, but is cut off before he can finish.

                “Watson. Yes, I know.” Sherlock waves him off.

                John is taken aback, but regains his composure. Mrs. Hudson beams conspiratorially.

                “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”

                “Sure,” he says hesitantly, eyebrows furrowing.

                “This,” she gestures to the slender boy, “Is Sherlock.”

                “Yeah. So I’ve been told.”

                “Mrs. Hudson, please allow me to explain.” Sherlock turned to John. “In light of recent events, I am looking to relocate from the Montague Building to the Baker Hall dormitories.  Due to your delayed registration, you are the only student there with no roommate.”

                “Sherlock’s a good student,” Mrs. Hudson assures. “One of our best. Would you object to him staying with you?”

                John shoots a glance at the teenager next to him, but before he can protest, he finds himself stealing a look at Mrs. Hudson with her bright eyes and expectant smile, and he can’t find it in his heart to disagree.

                Before John knows it, he’s back at Baker Hall in Room 221, but this time he isn’t alone.

                Sherlock appraises the room apprehensively. “It’ll do,” he mutters.

                “Right. Make yourself at home,” John tells him.

                Sherlock drops his things on the bed, and then turns on his heel to face John. “There are a few things you should be aware of. I have a tendency to stay awake for days on end, and sometimes I go without speaking for even longer. I play violin. Do you have a problem with the violin?”

                “Ah, no, I don’t.” John sits down on his own bed, watching as his new roommate wanders from one end of the room to the other. “Good. Only uncultured swine – much like my last roommate, coincidentally – are averse to string music. And no, I’m not crazy,” he says. “I know you were wondering. They always do.”

                “I… I wasn’t…”

                “Of course you were.” He spins, staring at John and sizing him up. “Something in your past has traumatized you. Something that happened fairly recently, too. Car accident? Probably. Your Talent is a healing one, and you wish to go into medicine. You have a sister, and a mother who worries about you. You have yet to reply to her latest letter. Why? I’d say you were too busy but you clearly don’t get out much, so what else would you be doing? No, you don’t know how to respond. Insomnia and nightmares? Plausible. Anxiety? Also likely. Am I right?”

                John blinks a few times, bewildered, before stuttering, “That was _bloody_ brilliant.”

                “I know. Was I right?”

                “Spot on, mate.” He’s still genuinely awestruck. “That was fantastic.”

                “Funny. That’s not what most people say,” Sherlock says, his lips nearly twitching into a smile.

                “What do most people say?”

                “Piss off,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly.

                “And… how did you know all that?”

                “Simple. You shake like a PTSD patient. If it was years ago, the symptoms wouldn’t be so pronounced. The wound’s still fresh. You also have a limp. You try to hide it and you don’t use a cane, but you find it difficult to stand for long periods of time, hence the sitting. I may’ve caught a glance of Mrs. Hudson’s files, call it cheating. Your Talent is clearly listed as healing, not to mention that your class schedule would also suggest it. There’s an Anatomy book in your bag, for one. The fact that healing is your Talent and that you are taking such classes suggests an interest in the medical field. There are two pictures on your nightstand of two separate women. I’d say a girlfriend and a mother, but you are all share physical characteristics and follow some patterns in regards to facial structure. Genetics. There’s a letter open on the table, but no pen, paper, or an addressed envelope. Your mother wrote you but you have yet to respond. Your trouser cuffs are all but clear. You seldom leave the dormitory. Dark circles under the eyes suggest difficulty sleeping. Tension in your posture and fidgeting gestures say anxiety.” Sherlock shrugs.

                “Wow.”

                “I’ve been told that I’m a rubbish roommate, but you can rest assured that at least I’m not an idiot.”

                “I’ll say.”

                Sherlock cocks his head to the side, smiling. “Do you mind if I play?” he asks, gesturing to the slender case on the bed.

                “Of course not.”

                The melody that follows is bright, sweet, but melancholy. 


	4. Irene

                A few days later, John happens to look up from his textbook to see two students across the library eyeing him and speaking between themselves. When he catches their eye, they quiet immediately, turning back to their respective study materials.

                He tries to brush it off, but it’s only a few minutes later when the incident repeats itself. With a sigh, be closes his book and approaches them. “Can I help you?”

                The girl, with a head full of curly brown hair, clears her throat. “You’re Freak’s new roommate, right?”

                “Excuse me?”

                “Sherlock Holmes,” her friend, a boy with a long face drown into a scowl, clarifies.

                “He’s your roommate, right?”

                “Um, yeah.”

                “He was my roommate back in Montague. He was horrid. Roommate from hell.”

                “I’m so sorry, mate,” the girl continues. “Get out while you can,” she admonishes.

                “No one should have to put up with that,” the boy drawls.

                “Sorry, but I don’t know you and you’re insulting my roommate. He’s a fine person. I’m done here. Mind your own business.” He turns on his heel, stalking across the library, and he nearly forgets his book in his rush to get out.

                Before he reaches the exit, he hears a whispered, “Looks like Sherlock’s got himself a little pet.”

…0…

                “Met your fan club today,” John mutters, tossing his knapsack on the floor and flopping down onto his bed.

                “That’ll be Anderson and Donovan, I assume. God, I’m sorry. Anderson is a blithering idiot. It’s a good thing I got away when I did. I might’ve killed him.”

                “He didn’t behave as though you two were the best of friends, no. Called you the roommate from hell. There was a girl, too. Know her?”

                “Unfortunately.” Sherlock is poring over his chemistry notes. “Sally Donovan. They’re rarely seen without each other. She’s not nearly as bad as her little friend, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s guilty by association.” He pauses, looking a bit closer at the notebook in front of him. “Hm. The book is wrong, just as I suspected,” he states.

                “What?”

                “Oh, nothing.” He slams the book, and puts both it and his notebook away, then stands and stretches. “God, am I bored.”

                At that moment, there’s a knock at the door. “And that will be Irene.” He grins before calling, “Come in!”

                The door swings open and John is met with the sight of a slender girl dressed smartly in a black dress and a simple white cardigan. Her hair is done up in a sleek twist. She smiles – in a way that seems almost predatory – before offering up her hand, tipped with blood red nails, for him to shake.

                “You must be Mr. John Watson. A pleasure to meet you.”

                “And I’m going to guess that you’re Irene,” he says.

                “Of course. You don’t mind if I steal him for an hour or two, do you?”

                “What? Why would I-…” he attempts, flustered.

                Irene laughs. Sherlock shrugs on his coat. “Dinner?” she asks, extending an arm to him.

                “Of course,” he agrees, linking their arms together. “Be back later,” he tells John before the two of them sweep out of the room.

…0…

                It’s at least forty-five minutes after lights out when Sherlock and Irene finally return. John is sprawled out on his bed with a particularly interesting adventure book when they flop onto the bed across from his.

                “Evening, John,” Irene says.

                “How was dinner?” he asks, turning over to face them.

                “Fine. Of course, Sherlock here simply would not shut up about you.”

                Sherlock rolls his eyes.

                “He tells me your Talent is healing.”

                “Right, yeah.” John closes his book, setting it on the nightstand and sitting up.  

                “That’s lovely. I always did wish I had a Talent that was a bit more useful,” she tells him.

                “What can you do?” John asks.

                Sherlock rolls his eyes. In answer, John’s anatomy book slides off the nightstand and the pages fan out before the book drops unceremoniously to the floor. “Telekinesis,” Sherlock explains unnecessarily.

                “You can move things with your mind. That’s pretty amazing, I’d say.”

                “That may be so, but it’s certainly not the most practical of talents.” She shrugs, then turns to Sherlock. “I like him,” she says. “He’s better than your last one.”

                “Doesn’t take much,” Sherlock scoffs.

                “Touché.” Irene looks at her watch, heaving a sigh. “I’d best be off. Goodnight, Holmes. Watson.”

                And within seconds she has swept out of the room.

                “So,” John turns to Sherlock once she’s gone. “That’s your girlfriend?”

                “What?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “Of course not. I don’t have a girlfriend. It’s not really my area.”

                “Boyfriend, then?”

                “No,” he says shortly.

                “I see.” There’s a long, empty pause before John speaks again. “You never told me what your Talent is.”

                “What? Oh. Detection of residual memory.”

                “Come again?”

                The dark-haired teenager leans back on the bed, heaving a sigh before continuing. “I can see flashes – bits and pieces, if you will – of the past of an object by touching it. Sometimes I have to make an effort, sometimes it just happens. Occasionally, these images and associations are painful or sudden. I don’t like to use anything that’s had a previous owner. I run the risk of feeling unwanted emotions just by having them.”

                “Oh.” John immediately feels his stomach drop. He had assumed that Sherlock’s flawless, expensive wardrobe and the bed set he used instead of the plain, school-issues one were a result of his class and privilege. Now he knows that, while that may be part of the case, he learns that it is actually a precaution.

                “Mhm,” Sherlock murmurs. He stands in a single fluid motion, reaching for his violin case.

                John yawns, stretching, and pulls back the covers. The music stops momentarily. “Are you going to sleep now?”

                “Uh, yeah. I was planning on it,” he mumbles. “Carry on.”

                “Ah. Well. Goodnight.” Though he can’t see it, Sherlock offers the smallest shadow of a smile.

                John is lulled to sleep that night by the soft sound of strings and a bow. 


	5. Molly

                Irene stops by a few times after the initial meeting of herself and John. Occasionally, she and Sherlock go on walks around the little town within which St. Bartholomew’s is situated, or they go out for dinner at some little restaurant nearby. John likes her well enough, he supposes. On a couple occasions, Greg stops by to make sure Sherlock and John are getting along. He leaves each time, giving Mrs. Hudson a glowing report to which she usually replies with some variation of “I tell you, they’re a match made in heaven, Gregory.”  

                John is sitting in his desk while Sherlock paces back and forth from one end of the dormitory to the other. Rain pelts the windows, sliding down in torrents. It’s keeping most of the students inside for the day.

                “Bored?” John asks. It’s a complaint he’s grown used to after hearing it numerous times over the few weeks he’s been living with Sherlock.

                “Dreadfully so,” Sherlock mutters, flopping onto his bed before letting out a groan. “This is tedious.”

                “Where’s Irene?”

                “Ugh, busy.” He waves John off. After tapping on his mobile for a few seconds, he stops abruptly, sitting up. “The Autumn Ball,” he says, his tone one of urgency. “Are you going?”

                John looks up from his homework. “Come again?”

                “The Autumn Ball. It’s a formal dance, and it’s coming up in – oh, a week and a half? I don’t know, sometime soon. I think I’ve deleted the specifics. Anyways, it’s an icebreaker event, really. Get everyone talking to each other. Terribly, terribly dull, if you ask me. Are you going to go?” he asks again.

                “Um. Probably not,” John says, turning back to his book.

                “Well why not?” Sherlock demands, crossing his arms.

                “Well you just said it was ‘terribly, terribly dull’,” John points out.

                “It is. It’s horrendous.”

                “Then why should I go?” John cocks an eyebrow at his roommate. “Doesn’t make much sense if it’s that awful, does it?”

                “Well, the autumn ball is fantastically boring. That’s the truth. I, however, do like to attend. Nothing happens, but I go because there’s always the chance that something might, especially something that could require my unique set of skills.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

                “I assume you’re going to go with Irene, then?” John asks, finally shutting his book.

                “Naturally. She and Katie are not together, at the moment,” he says.

                “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t have a date anyways. Looks like I’m not going.” John offers Sherlock an apologetic shrug, which the taller boy rolls his eyes at.

                “Dull,” is his mumbled retort, muffled by the pillow he is holding over his face.

                This gets him an eye-roll of his own from across the room as John wonders when his roommate became his friend and his friend became a pain in his ass.

…0…

                It’s a few days after the Autumn Ball Discussion, as John has mentally dubbed it, when he meets another new face.

                It’s been a long day, and John is in a bit of a foul mood. He’s in the kitchenette making himself a warm cup of tea when he hears a knocking on the door. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, he goes to open it. “He’s forgotten the damn keys again,” he grumbles, expecting Sherlock to be facing him when he throws the door open. Instead, he finds himself face to face with a short, mousy girl wearing a bright cardigan embroidered with images og balloons.

                “Oh!” she yelps, eyes wide. She’s holding a stack of books nearly a foot wide. “Is, um… Is Sherlock here?” she squeaks.

                “Um, no,” John tells her. “I’m not sure exactly where he’s gone off to. Sorry.”

                “Oh. I’ll come back later, then,” she says, starting back down the hall.

“Uh, wait.” He takes about half of her stack of books, cocking his head towards the entrance of the dormitory. “Come in,” he says.

“Thank you! Your name is John, right?”

“Yeah, it is. And what’s yours?” he asks, setting her books on the table. She does the same, and extends a hand for him to shake. “I’m Molly. Molly Hooper.”

                “Nice to meet you. You’re another one of Sherlock’s friends?”

                She nodded. “I suppose that would be a good word for, ah, whatever we are.”

                “Of course it is, Molly,” Sherlock says, sweeping into the room while staring intently at his mobile. It strikes John as amazing that he has the capability to move so gracefully while paying absolutely no mind to his surroundings.

                “Hello, Sherlock!” She beams, and John can’t help but note a hint of admiration – and was that desperation? – in her eyes.

“Afternoon.” He hangs his coat on a hook near the door, before sitting down on top of the table next to the large stack of the library’s borrowed materials.

“I got the books,” Molly informs him.

                Sherlock claps his hands together. “Excellent.” He looks at his friends. “Oh. I suppose I should formally introduce you. John, this is Molly. Molly, this is John.” He cracks open the top book from the stack before giving them both a pointed look. “Do you need anything more?”

                John clears his throat, turning to Molly. “Fancy a cuppa?” he asks. When they’re a safe distance from Sherlock’s perch, he apologizes profusely. “Sherlock’s a bit ridiculous.”

                “And quite eccentric, too. But, he’s really great!” she amends hastily. “He’s just about my only friend. Everyone else thinks I’m hopelessly peculiar.”

                “Why do you say that?” he asks, waiting for the kettle to boil.   

                “My talent.” She shrugs her shoulders, looking down at the floor.

                “Sorry if this is rude – I’m not totally sure about the etiquette of talking about someone’s talent – but… what exactly is yours?” he asks.

                “I can talk to animals,” she says. “I’ve been called Crazy Cat Lady since I was… oh… a third year?”

                “I think that’s bloody brilliant!” he exclaims. “But those are terrible things to say. I don’t think you’ll be a crazy cat lady, if it means anything.”

                She beams, blushing slightly. “Of course it does.”

…0…

                After Molly leaves, Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, smirking triumphantly. “Still need a date?”


	6. The Autumn Ball

                Molly looks for all the world like a blushing bride in her pale yellow dress when John knocks on her door an hour before the Autumn Ball. She beams at him, giving him a quick once-over. “You look nice,” she tells him, beaming. “Oh! Let me get my coat!” she cries. Moments later, she returns with her jacket slung over her arm.

                “Shall we?” John offers, extending an arm to her.

                She nods, smiling widely and looping her arm in his. The two of them make their way to Room 221, where they meet Sherlock and Irene, who are waiting patiently – well, as patiently as Sherlock ever is.

                “Lovely. Are we all ready?” Irene asks when John returns with Molly.

                “Absolutely,” Molly says, bouncing.

                The four of them begin the short trek to the ballroom - John was a bit put-off upon finding that St. Bartholomew’s was complete with a ballroom, but he’s slowly becoming more used to the idea – and John can’t help but notice that Sherlock and Irene certainly make a visually pleasing pair. They both have the same dark hair, though Sherlock’s is wild and curly where Irene’s has just a gentle wave to it. In his tailored jacket and thin tie, Sherlock looks especially slender this evening. Irene’s blood red lipstick adds a sharp edge to a look that would have otherwise bordered on angelic, with her creamy skin and soft ivory dress.

                They both, in short, look as though they have descended from heaven.

                Or, at least, John thinks, if he believes in such a place at all. Considering his life thus far, he isn’t quite sure he does.

                Sherlock clears his throat loudly, shooting John a pointed look with raised eyebrows. “Are you going to stop ogling my date, or shall we get on with it?” Irene asks.

                John coughs nervously, staring down at the ground before meeting her eye, his cheeks burning bright red. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-…”

                “Oh, of course, of course,” she says, but she winks coyly at him.

                Molly pats his arm reassuringly. “It’s perfectly alright. Sherlock has that effect on everyone.”

                “No, no. I wasn’t- I’m not gay!” he cries.

                “Sure,” Irene murmurs under her breath. “

                John shakes his head, sighing with irritation at all three of them. (Though, really, Molly has done nothing wrong. He’s just frustrated.) He’s hit with a feeling of relief when the quartet finally reaches the door to the grand ballroom. Mrs. Hudson greets them before ushering them inside. “I was just about to close the doors,” she tells Sherlock, “But I figured that you’d be on your way soon enough.”

                Sherlock smiles at her politely before leading Irene into the ballroom, with John and Molly following shortly behind.

                John is momentarily in awe, which is something he thought he had entirely grown out of since coming to St. Bartholomew’s, and especially since meeting the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes. Occasionally, little things do surprise him, such as the immensity of the ballroom, and the vast number of people – students, he realizes, though he didn’t think there were nearly that many students at St. Bartholomew’s – spinning to the music that’s blaring through the room. The walls and ceiling are draped with swatches of fabric in brilliant reds, golds, yellows. In the corner, there’s a table laden with small cakes, candies, and other snacks. The punch bowl looks larger than a bathtub and there’s an ice sculpture taking up half of a table.

                “Wow.”

                “That’s all you’ve got? Wow?” Irene jabs. “You really got yourself a creative one, Sherlock,” she says.

                Sherlock rolls his eyes, and then shrugs at John as Irene yanks him onto the dance floor. “Sorry,” he says. “Have fun!”

                “Would you like to dance?” John asks, turning to Molly. To his surprise, however, she’s already gone. “Oh. Alright, then.”

                He spends a fair bit of time sitting in a chair at one of the small tables set up in the corner of the room. After a half an hour or so, he catches the eye of a pretty brunette in a blue dress standing on the other side of the ballroom. Taking a deep breath, he stands. John tries his best not to limp as he approaches her. “It’s Sarah, right?”

                Her nose crinkles when she smiles at him. “That’s right. Sarah Sawyer. I’m in your anatomy class.”

                “Right!” he exclaims. “We dissected that piglet together, didn’t we?”

                She laughs. “Absolutely.”

                “Well, Sarah Sawyer,” he begins, hearing the gradual shift in music to a slower song, “Would you like to dance?”

                “With you?” she asks, her lips quirking up at the corners.

                “Nah, I was thinking with that bloke over there,” he says, taking one of her hands in his own. “Unless you’d like to dance with me instead.”

                “I’d love to, John Watson,” she tells him, positioning her hand on his shoulder.

                The two of them share a few more dances before the evening is through, and John notices with a surge of relief that Molly seems to have found herself a boy to dance with. He’s dark-haired, and at least three inches shorter than she is, but she seems to be enjoying herself all the same. He even catches the eye of Sherlock, who shoots him a wink before twirling away with Irene.

                Around midnight, Mrs. Hudson ascends to the small stage set up at the front of the ballroom with a microphone in hand. “I hope you’re all enjoyed the evening,” she says, smiling down at all of them. “And I hope you’ve made at least one new friend tonight. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but I believe it’s off to bed for you all now.”

                Within a few minutes, all of the students are pouring out the doors, stumbling up the cobbles paths – often with jackets slung over shoulders or shoes in hand – back to their dormitories. John meets Sherlock, Molly, and Irene outside the door. The girls bid them goodnight before making their way to the Haverstaff dormitories, arm in arm, giggling slightly.

                “How was your night?” Sherlock asks as he and John begin the long walk back to Baker Hall.

                “Fantastic,” John tells him, the bliss evident in the contented smile on his face.

                “I see you’ve made a new friend. Sarah Sawyer, right?” Sherlock asks.

                “I think I’m going to ask her on a date.”

                “Very nice,” Sherlock says.

                “And how was your evening?”

                “Dreadfully dull,” Sherlock laments. “But at least I was in good company,” he adds hastily.

                John nods, standing back a bit as his roommate unlocks their door. “That’s good, at least.”

                Sherlock shrugs, throwing the door open. “Well, John, would you count this as a success?”

                After flopping down onto his bed, John crinkles his brow, thinking momentarily. “Yes, Sherlock. Yes I would.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! I apologize for any errors, and any crappiness that my writing will undoubtedly have. If you're interested in Beta'ing and/or "britpicking", let me know! Drop me a line here or at my tumblr, holywaterandsonicscrewdrivers.


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